A Canadian in Beijing: Shannon’s Wings

by Ember Swift on

Today is the one-year anniversary of my friend’s death. One year ago today my friend committed suicide and I had never before lost a loved one to the concept of choice. It was shocking, to say the least, and I struggled hard to work through the meanings, the messages, the learning, the processing, the feelings. And, that work is never truly over.

She took to the sky and her wings were hers to exercise, I know. But, we all miss her. We only have the feathers she left behind and a lot of unanswered questions. The word of the year has been: acceptance.

Here I am in Beijing – so far from my little country town (where she died) and Montreal (where she lived) – and yet it feels like Shannon is just next door, living across the hall. As it happens with significant things in our lives, when the time of year comes around again that marks the passing of time since that event, everything seems to be a reminder of her as though she’s really close by. Thoughts themselves seem to manifest outside of my mind into the so-called randomness of life. That is how it has been for me these past few days. Shannon has been in everything my eyes have lingered on; she has been in every conversation that has sparked my interest; she’s even in my lessons at school.

We learned the word for suicide yesterday and it came up again today: Zi Sha 自杀 . Seeing as Bejing is twelve hours ahead of Montreal at the moment, I felt that was fitting. Both days full of reminders to mark one day back home.

I also had a great chat with an artist yesterday about the concept of breathing, cross-species communication, flight. All of these topics were in Shannon’s art and as I chatted with this artist in Chinese in a dimly lit café over cold beers, I felt as though I could have been chatting to her in English on a dimly lit country porch over red wine. Same vibe. Same style of conversation. Language, country, gender irrelevant.

This week began with a visit to a bird sanctuary, as well, which also symbolizes my friend. She loved birds and drew them regularly. She collected feathers and repeatedly photographed, carved and painted a dead sparrow that she found that had apparently frozen to death. It lay frozen in time and it captured her interest in a really special, poignant way. This image has now become symbolic of her life, her yearning for release, her curiosity about the other side.

The bird sanctuary was an accidental discovery. My friend and I stumbled on it while walking around and exploring the countryside. For just 6 kuai a person (with our student cards – less than $1 Canadian), we were able to stroll through the park and visit all the birds. But, nothing is an accident, really. The timing of this discovery was right in line with the significance of this time – a commemoration of my friend.

I took copious pictures of birds from all over the world, not just China. So many colours and shapes and sizes. I was amazed by the diversity of birds in this small sanctuary. Put a sparrow next to an ostrich and it seems uncanny that they’re both birds (Just look at those ostrich feet!) Put a turkey next to a flamingo and it’s hard to see how they’re from the same species! But, they’re all beautiful in their own way… (be nice to the turkeys, now!)

There were these super large birds whose Chinese name I have forgotten. (Does anyone know what they’re called in English?) They were the most interesting to me because they appear to be so animated with their large eyes, their slouched and hobbled walk. (The opening shot on this blog is of this bird and below is its full body.) It reminds me a kid’s cartoon whose name I have also forgotten, or the way judges in court are often depicted with their hunched shoulders, spectacled eyes and long gowns resembling black feathers. The fact that they’re so big also made it possible to read expression in their eyes, which is something you can’t normally do with birds. I told them (silently) that I was sorry that they were trapped in there. They looked at me with disgust. We were both helpless in that moment.

I walked away from their large cage feeling a rush of wanting to release them all – every bird in the park – and let them take to the sky. I know it’s not responsible. After all, look at the effect of starlings on North America just because of one man’s desire to have all the birds of England in Central Park? But, the urge to release a winged creature is something that just rushes up in me when I see a bird in a cage. I want to use my opposable thumbs to help them return to the wide open spaces above it all…

And, of course, along the exit pathway there was a full wall that showed birds that have already gone extinct and when. Many of these extinctions are a result of development, pollution, hunting, and of course a lack of human foresight that led to thoughtless decisions or loss of habitat. It struck me that perhaps it is possible that some of these birds simply went away. Maybe they just didn’t feel like staying in this world in the way that it was and has become. They left.

It’s possible. Anything’s possible.

Shannon’s date of extinction was June 12th, 2006. For me, her face was on that wall too. I miss her.

I miss you.

A Canadian in Beijing: “No Clamber Over”

by Ember Swift on

I’m from Ontario. It’s a relatively flat province in Canada with lots of rolling hills and some small mountains that most of my west-coast friends won’t even call mountains. That’s fair enough, considering they’re looking at the Rockies all the time. The first time I saw those magnificent Rocky mountains I was sixteen years old and I remember feeling as though I had never seen anything so intense, so breathtaking, so grand in nature. Every time I get the opportunity to go west again and look up at their majestic snow-capped peaks, I am awed all over again. They never get boring to me – this Ontario-born Canadian – and I always feel really lucky to see them again.

Now here I am in Beijing and I was only an hour out of town this weekend and I had a similar moment of complete shock. I knew there were mountains outside of Beijing, but I didn’t know they’d be so beautiful! Of course, they’re nowhere near as high as the Rockies (i.e. no snow and no cloud-covered peaks), but they’re majestic all the same. These mountains are lush and green and they hold beautiful “tan ?” (deep pools), waterfalls and teal-coloured lakes in their various stony crevices.

I am moved by natural beauty.

(I took a lot of photos.)

The mountain we climbed was called: “Yougu Shentan 幽古伸潭.” The path rounded around a flowing stream filled with huge rocks and small waterfalls, mountain pools heated by the sunshine and picturesque views that took your breath away every time you turned around. And, you had to turn around regularly. Why keep your back to the beauty? It made for a slower ascent, but the view was always worth it.

Climbing was, of course, hard work. This was a tourist site, though, and it was set up well with resting spots equipped with sun awnings, railings on steep sections and lots of benches along the way. The “No Clamber Over” signs made me chuckle, too. I explained to my friend that the word “clamber” was technically correct, but it’s just such a strange way to request that people stay on the walkway side of the fence. “Don’t Climb Over the Fence” would more likely be on a sign at home. In fact, I haven’t seen the word “clamber” in print in a long time!

We didn’t bring any water or food with us, however, and made the mistake of assuming there’d be a vendor somewhere. About halfway up, we asked someone coming the other way and discovered that there would be no food at all for us unless we were to invade a stranger’s picnic! Of course, that was out of the question, but we were lucky enough to learn that a free flowing spring was at the top of the mountain and we just needed to get there to re-hydrate. Around the next bend, we found it.

As non-Chinese as it was, I washed my hands vigorously under the spout and then cupped them together and filled them up with water so that I could drink from the spring. I brought my cupped hands to my lips several times and felt refreshed.

I heard a woman exclaim “she’s drinking from her hands!” and I knew it was because here in China it is assumed that hands are very dirty. Perhaps this is a fair assumption, for the most part, but I didn’t have a bottle with me and this method is a way I have known to collect water since my childhood. Different cultures = different practices.

My friend, however, had a different plan. The fact that he’s Chinese meant that he wasn’t going to do as I had done and he, too, looked at me strangely as I cupped my hands together and brought them to my lips. I shrugged and continued. I was too thirsty to change my ways in that moment. When I was done, he leaned his whole face into the spout and took the water directly into his mouth. He came away from the spring with his whole face and part of his hair drenched but smiling. Different strokes for different folks! Either way, we both felt better.

At this point in the walk, we were too tired to continue and started to double back. This mountain path was not a circular one and so lunch was no closer to us the farther we walked. Food was becoming more of a motivator than scenic sights.

After getting back down to the foot of the mountain, we hopped on the bike and drove deeper into the hills where the roads wound around steep cliffs and rose and fell in switchbacks and hairpin turns. Around one corner, we saw a building that looked, to me, like an old gas station. My friend turned in and parked the bike right next to an empty outdoor table and asked the proprietor if we could have lunch there. They said sure and motioned for us to sit.

I was shocked. It didn’t look like a restaurant to me! There were three tables that were sitting in front of two cars. These cars were essentially in the parking lot (or where the pumps would have been had it once been a gas station, which it hadn’t) and then there was an L-shaped building that didn’t look like a restaurant in the least.

On closer inspection, this was indeed an eating establishment. One of those rooms housed some interior tables, one was the kitchen and one appeared to be living quarters for those who ran the restaurant. Simple and nothing fancy, but fully functional.

We ordered some vegetarian dishes, which included vegetables that grow on these very mountains. The food was delicious, the service was kind and it was the perfect lunch for two incredibly hungry hikers. Afterwards, I took several pictures of the surroundings not wanting to forget this nondescript building and its hidden hospitality. After all, it felt to me that we were pulling up at a personal residence and we were treated as such – just like long-lost guests.

This mountain top adventure more than quenched my thirst for beauty and my hunger for nature. I came away humbled by my insular Beijing existence over the past two months (not counting my foray into Shanghai, but that too is another city). I now know that all of this natural beauty is just a short drive away. I’ll be sure to take more of it in on my next journey to China.

Until then, I have lots of photos.

A Canadian in Beijing: The Wild Wall Will Not Be Tamed

by Ember Swift on

When I went to the Great Wall on that first weekend I arrived in China, I simultaneously learned about the “rest of the wall.” By this, I mean the “wild wall” that isn’t a tourist attraction but lies along the spines of mountains across China, crumbling and often forgotten.

National Geographic Adventure Magazine ran an article called “Astride the Dragon’s Back” (written by Matthew Power). My friend here loaned it to me after we returned from seeing that tourist section of the Great Wall. I read it twice. I was fascinated.

This weekend, a friend of mine took mercy on my country girl self and took me to the outskirts of Beijing so that I could breathe some fresh air. Our plans were simply to see green mountains, fresh water and breathe deeply. On Saturday morning, we were climbing the mountain roads just one hour north of Beijing on his motorbike and I finally felt the city fall away from my skin. The air was fresh and the view was breathtaking. I was laughing and singing out loud into the wind when even my laughter was replaced by a gasp at what I saw.

There, on the mountain, was the Great Wall of China, climbing like a stony vine up the ridge, sporadically spiked with watchtowers and jagged in its uneven state of deterioration.

I yelled into the wind and my friend’s ear, “Look! It’s the Great Wall!” He yelled back, “No, Ember, that’s just the wild wall. The Great Wall is over there!” and he pointed to where “Mu Tian Yu,” the tourist site that I visited two months ago is located a few miles away. I yelled back , “but that’s still the Great Wall and it’s even more gorgeous! No McDonald’s and postcard vendors!” and he laughed.

And then, suddenly, he slowed down, turned off the road and parked the bike. It turns out that walking up to the wild wall is very easy. You just park your vehicle, find a path and walk up the mountain! Some paths are more worn in than others. We found this out the hard way and had to descend once before finding a more worn way that didn’t require crawling through weeds and overgrown spiked bushes!

Fifteen minutes later in the 38 degree heat, sweating and winded from the climb, I was standing on the Great Wall of China… speechless. There it was, just stretching before me like an open palm of history and I was on its back, atop piles of stone that had long fallen in on itself and formed more of a rounded ridge than a defensive squared-off one.

It was solid, though, and felt safe to stand on. It had been trekked before. There was evidence of footsteps and rubbish by other curious hikers, which was the only sad fact to what was otherwise a glorious moment of discovery for me. The rubbish, I mean. Happily, though, the trash was just on the flatter sections that had obviously been used as picnic sites. When we walked along, it was just stone and greenery for “gongli” after “gongli” (kilometre after kilometre.)

The article I read two months ago spoke about the first non-Chinese person to trek the Great Wall, British ex-pat William Lindsay, and his non-profit organization called “International Friends of the Great Wall,” an organization that he set up to promote both the exploration and the preservation of the “vast, unreconstructed, overgrown sections that are free of tourist kitsch, trash, vendors, graffiti, and all the encroachments of modernity.”

The article explained that some of the really remote sections are under threat. Apparently, one section of the wall located northwest of Beijing was dismantled stone by stone to pave a local highway. It was a thousand yards in length. Furthermore, the tourist areas “have been rebuilt and paved over, essentially, with little concern for historical accuracy or respect for the wall’s landscape.”

When I read about these situations, I really craved the wild wall and what it would feel like under my feet or against the palm of my hand. I really wondered if I had felt the history fully at the tourist site. I even wondered if the stones under my feet had truly been ancient stones or if they had all been replaced to accommodate the excessive traffic at those sites. For example, I have heard that Badaling, the most popular location of the Great Wall, gets over 10,000 visitors a day.

So on Saturday when I stood there on that wild section of the Great Wall, I felt huge and miniscule at once; I felt vividly alive and simultaneously conscious of the dead under my feet in a more raw way than I had before. The dust and dirt between the stones was grey and brown and black and white and I couldn’t help but wonder if those white flecks were ancient bones. I knelt down and took a handful of dirt into my right palm and circled the colours with my left fingers. I still couldn’t speak. I just heard the wind. I just breathed time into my lungs through the scent of the nearby lilacs mixed with my own sweat.

Time is all we have.

After awhile, we decided to climb up to the closest watchtower. It took another fifteen minutes to get there, but we made it. Peering out those old windows into the foothills and valley below, I felt a solemnity with time. These old stone buildings were still standing and still telling their stories. They’re not going anywhere fast. I was reminded that the earliest fortifications were built in the 7th century BC. While I have no idea when these specific sections were built, they are still ancient to this Canadian! And, there’s fierceness in how solid the rock sits against the mountain. Resolute. Determined. Stubborn.

I felt myself flood with respect.

I also wanted to clean up the rubbish and wished I had brought an extra plastic bag or twelve. The place was littered with plastic bottles and garbage and cigarette butts, not to mention covered in graffiti.

The article explained that recent economic growth in the past twenty years has meant the advent of the first “Chinese hiker,” or city people (once having emptied the countryside for the city in hopes of finding urban work) now exploring the countryside again, this time as wealthy tourists. One of my favourite quotes from the article is this one: “It seems ironic that the city the Great Wall was built to protect is now, in a sense, its greatest threat.”

Environmentalism is not exactly thriving here, but Lindsay’s organization is trying to promote a sense of mutual ownership, conservation and stewardship of this huge piece of ancient history. And, really, in terms of the municipality of Beijing (which is about the size of New Jersey) we’re talking about four hundred miles of The Great Wall that line its northern mountains, of which only a few have been reconstructed for tourism. Constant preservation is impossible, but instilling a sense of respect and honour for such an important piece of history is not.

My friend, who is Chinese, had never seen the wild wall before. He stood there as amazed as I was. He, too, was silent. He told me it would not be his last visit to see the wall in its natural state, crumbling back into the chaos of nature where it began.

William Lindsay is quoted as saying, “The Great Wall is an entire landscape, not just the wall itself. Its greatness is in its wholeness, and every alteration, every tourist trap makes it less.”

I wholeheartedly agree.

A Canadian in Beijing: 798 Arts District Accepts the Cultural Baton

by Ember Swift on

The arts district of Beijing is called the “798” district. That’s its address, to be precise. It’s technically in “Da Shan Zi ???” (which is the area of the city) and this complex used to be a series of factories that have now all been converted to galleries and cafes. It’s quite beautiful and peaceful there and I have been meaning to tell you about it for a while.

My friend and I took the bus to the district. I don’t take the city buses here often because I frankly can’t figure them out. I’m sure they’re easy, but it’s confusing to me and I’d rather stick to the subways and taxis. Two out of three is not so bad, I say. Maybe I’ll work on understanding the Beijing bus system in my future, but not now. Anyway, this time it was fine because my friend is a Beijing expert and she knew exactly what bus to take, how much to pay and where to get off. Gotta love the escort service of seasoned ex-pats!

We arrived at “798” and I wasn’t sure what to expect. I have been through many gallery districts in North America, but I wasn’t expecting this labyrinth – a maze of alleys where any possible door could lead to another display of daring sculptures, huge paintings or strange installations of giant eggs or huge wax sculptures of naked men in the act of urination. I appreciate visual art but I’m not always a contemporary art lover, I must admit.

What I found especially beautiful about this area, architecturally, were how the above-ground pipes combined with the trees to form what felt like a living organism. The pipes were the veins and the trees were its limbs and the buildings housed the heart – the art. These pipes connected all the buildings and were obviously designed this way during the industrial activity of these old factories. Now, I have no idea If these pipes are still in use, but they seemed mythical somehow as they stretched above our heads and linked it all into one cohesive artistic force. If nothing else, may this be their perpetual use.

We turned a corner and came upon what my friend told me was a famous installation here in Da Shan Zi. It sits inside a circular, glassed-in, gazebo-style structure. It’s a series of posters that use very famous communist imagery like the face of Chairman Mao, the star motif, the colour red, large lettering, etc. These images are combined with the logos and slogans of famous brands like McDonald’s and Heineken as well as their logos and slogans. To me, this combination embodies all that China has become in its modern identity as a communist-capitalist country. Striking to see how branding exists in both a political movement and capitalist advertising. Both are so insistent. Both have spent time being ever-present and solicitous in this society. Communism is currently handing over the baton to capitalism and I feel as though this era is that moment of transfer. In my opinion, this art captures this perception precisely.

In one gallery there was a display of mops piled high all together. Yes, I said “mops” – the kind of mops that you’d use to mop a floor. These were all different brilliant colours, however. While it looked colourful and festive, I didn’t understand it until I looked at its reflection on the white wall. With a specially angled light pointing at it, it cast the shadow of a person’s profile with a huge mohawk, fittingly in black and white (of course, considering it was just a shadow). The artist had depicted something so everyday in a colourfully visible and elaborate way while something so unusual here which is commonly so colourful and elaborate (i.e. a punk hairstyle, which is growing in popularity, by the way) was muted and in the background.

The old begets the new.

Such is this entire district. Crumbling factory walls housing brand new ideas. Rusty pipes casting their reflection on shiny gallery windows. What used to be everyday here has now become a shadow. What is new and emerging is what was once just a shadow of a thought during the Cultural Revolution.

(Speaking of which, taking photos in art galleries is usually against the rules in Canada. Not so here. All photography was fine. This photo does not do the installation justice, but at least it gives you some idea.)

But, what makes me terrible as an art gallery attendee is that I did not take down the name of this artist, nor the gallery. I walked aimlessly and without my “investigative / photo journalist” hat on. I didn’t write anything down that day, actually. I just shot the odd photo and enjoyed the directionlessness. That’s just the way it was.

I did notice that many of the galleries are owned and/or staffed by non-Chinese (mostly white) people. There was a huge concentration of non-Chinese faces here, in face, which made me wonder how much this area caters to the ex-pat scene and tourist community as opposed to the local Chinese arts scene.

We didn’t stay for long but it felt like an important district to visit here in Beijing. I left joking that at least now I can tell everyone that I’ve taken in “some culture”! The joke is of course because this style of gallery is so very European or North American whereas the streets are where the Chinese culture sits fully and completely in every moment.

Leaving those busy streets for this quiet (and sometimes posh) gallery district was choosing to leave the inherent culture of what Beijing has to offer in its every breath. Instead, this 798 district “culture” is about taking in a new community, a new area, a new form of artistic expression here in China. And in its newness, it too has become part of what modern culture is here in Beijing – a small part, but still part of the culture of this city, nonetheless. So, I suppose that there’s no “leaving” of one kind of culture to take in another being done here; it’s more of an addition to what already exists. . . or, an extension into yet another definition of what this culture is.

Another leg in the race?

China’s joined the contemporary art relay.

And now, contemporary Chinese artists are starting to establish a global presence thanks to this 798 community, this movement, this newness. I’m sure their profiles will only continue to grow.

(And perhaps that’s what the egg is trying to tell me. . .)

A Canadian in Beijing: Dealing Inspiration

by Ember Swift on

One of my many aims of coming to Beijing was to embark on some music research (as described in my first blog). I spent the first six weeks gathering names and ideas and talking to people about my intentions to see what they thought of my research plans. I think taking time to settle into this community and carefully select who I ought to speak with and eventually interview was a good choice.

The project is going wonderfully.

The topic is women in music. The specific approach is a cross-examination of what it is like to be a woman who makes music (writes, composes, plays, sings) in this urban center (Beijing) as compared to what it’s like to be a woman making music in these ways in Toronto, for instance. The possibilities are endless. So far, my findings have been truly diverse.

Tuesday evening, my friend Traci and I headed to a local café and met with two amazing women, one who fronts a famous contemporary all-female Chinese punk band called “Hang On The Box” and another who was a member of the (now defunct) world famous and FIRST all-female rock band in China called “Cobra.” Both women, Wang Yue and Xiao Nan respectively, were a joy to meet and had so much to say about this amazing world of music.

But, it’s Traci who needs a shout out here. She is amazing. I just learned a new “chengyu 成语” (Chinese idiom) in class today and I immediately thought of her: yijian rugu “一见如故.” It means that someone feels like an old friend after the first meeting or, like you’ve met before because you immediately fall into a rhythm with each other. That’s what it was like when I met Traci and I am thrilled that she’s in my life.

When I first told Traci about my research plans, her eyes got wide and her pupils jumped with excitement. She told me that she had wanted to do similar research about ten years ago and hadn’t ever fully actualized her vision. She leaned forward in her chair to hear more and she got more and more excited about the ideas. She offered to help me on the spot and I, of course, eagerly accepted.

After all, she knows everyone in this music scene (it seems!) and her Chinese is impeccable after being her for thirteen years straight (and seventeen years on and off). I already knew that I would need a translator for certain interviews and certainly some help navigating this world of Chinese music. What’s more, having someone like Traci involved is like locating the missing piece – the essential bridge between two worlds.

I’ve found a perfect research partner and she’s been enormously helpful. Without her, this work couldn’t be done.

For instance, I’m extremely awkward on the telephone here. In fact, I still get really nervous speaking Chinese on the phone because I don’t have body language or any kind of energy context for what they’re saying. What’s more, people speak quickly and loudly on the telephone, which often blurs and distorts the sound. I have found myself completely lost in several conversations, which is just embarrassing, especially when I ask them to repeat themselves several times and the meaning doesn’t get any clearer with each repetition. When this happens, I begin to feel more and more anxious and stupid, which makes me more and more unable to understand: 越着急，越听不懂 (the more one worries, the more one doesn’t understand).

When I told Traci about my anxiety, she immediately offered to make the calls and set up the interview times with all of the Chinese artists that I wanted to interview. When she offered, the heavy dread lifted from my body. I visibly relaxed and sat back in my chair with a sigh. She laughed and completely understood. And, now that we’ve had an evening of interviews, I can see that without her, each interview would have been long and arduous with many misunderstandings and much frustration on both sides.

Traci’s such a good translator and is extremely gifted at making people feel comfortable that she should really do this for a living. She was unbelievable. Because she’s been a self-described “professional fan” of the music industry in China since the 90’s, she also is really knowledgeable and has no problem understanding the content of what is being said either, even though she is not a musician herself. That makes her a double expert – both in music and in Mandarin – and that is the ideal element of this project. What I offer is my investigation and writing skills. We form a perfect team.

All of these words have a (Christian) religious context, but I’m not sure what else to call her except one or all of the following: an angel, a saviour, a God-send? She is all and more. There’s got to be a more fitting word here . . .

Well, now that I’ve gushed for an entire post about my new friend, I should also tell you that my research will not be compiled here. I’ll be writing for several publications and websites when I get back and I’ll let you know where to find the articles.

In general, the biggest learning so far on this topic is that we, as women who make art, lead very similar lives no matter what the political, social, cultural, historical context. We want to be heard and have a voice, and we see how our contexts both restrict and enable those desires from being realized. There are times when we acknowledge and celebrate the “femaleness” of our art (both in perspective and approach) and times when we would just like to be seen as artists because the division is so tiring, so limiting, so annoying.

We did a lot of laughing on Tuesday at our mutually similar stories and experiences. While so much has changed in the past twenty years in both countries and in both the Canadian and Chinese music scenes, so much has also remained the same and may never change.

I left the café positively buzzing with new ideas. This philosophical cross-cultural exchange was like an injection of inspiration and I stayed up way too late writing and thinking and letting it settle in my bloodstream.

Inspiration is addictive.

Traci is the bridge to that high so I guess I ought to call her my “dealer.”

Which makes me an addict…